


A Glitch in the Code

by interrobangme



Category: Alien: Isolation (Video Game)
Genre: But I firmly believe he survives somehow, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Russian translation now available in the Notes, Samuels-centric, robofeels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 12:44:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5206337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interrobangme/pseuds/interrobangme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There is no reason for him to expend energy analyzing the tone of her voice, or the way she pushes her hair back from her face."</p>
<p>In which Samuels tries to deal with the impossibility of having feelings for Amanda Ripley.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Glitch in the Code

**Author's Note:**

> I kept thinking about how weird it must have been for Samuels to realize he had a crush on Ripley, and what that would be like in his head. So, this exists now!
> 
> Update: This fic has now been translated into Russian [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/6365023) by the fantastic [Itami67](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itami67/profile)!

It starts with her file.

Samuels dedicates time and space in his memory banks to learning about the potential crew members for their retrieval mission to Sevastopol. He sorts through the files on his desk methodically, absorbing what he may need to know about them in the future. 

No detail is too small. There's no telling what may be useful information when you're traveling through space with a group of people. He learns, for example, that Verlaine is partial to cats, and that Taylor is quickly climbing the corporate ladder. 

Samuels allots himself enough time to process every detail, until it's all stored and backed up in his mind. The files are no longer necessary, and he can return the clumsy paper folders to the Company. He's gleaned all he can from them.

And yet, he keeps returning to hers.

She isn't even definitely coming along on the mission. She doesn't yet know about the flight recorder, or Sevastopol Station.

But she's stayed in the same sector for years now, despite several offers to be promoted out of it, to far-off places where her skills would be put to use in more challenging and lucrative ways. _She's waiting_ , he thinks. _She's looking._

He decides to keep the folders a little longer, confident he'll soon understand what's making this person -- Amanda Ripley -- take up more of his time than the others. 

He finds himself poring over her file, her picture, rereading facts he already knows. He comes as close to frustration as he's ever gotten, allowing himself more and more time to spend with the papers that make up the brief history of Amanda Ripley.

When he does plan to meet her, to try and bring her along, he decides it must have something to do with the need to see her story come full circle. It still seems illogical to him, and doesn't sit right in his mind, but it's the only explanation he has.

There's a human theory called the Completion Principle, which states that people need to know how a story ends, how all the pieces fit together, in order to feel satisfied. He clings to this thought.

He just wants to give her closure. Maybe it would bring some closure for himself as well, and he could stop rifling through pages in the middle of the night, long after he had planned on entering rest mode. He could give the files back to the Company and quit staring at this worn photo of a stranger he can't stop thinking about.

On his way to Ripley's workshop, he reviews his talking points. He is functioning perfectly. His memory banks won't fail to retrieve the things he needs to say at the proper moment.

But he finds himself taking a deep breath and straightening his jacket before walking in all the same.

After they've met, he revisits the exchange over and over. He lies in his bunk, hands folded behind his head, and stares at the ceiling as their dialogue plays out on repeat. 

_I'm being thorough_ , he tells himself. 

_I'm malfunctioning_ , he also tells himself. 

There is no reason for him to expend energy analyzing the tone of her voice, or the way she pushes her hair back from her face.

He resolves to take care of the problem in the morning. He adds a stop at Synthetics Maintenance to his checklist for the next day before turning over and falling into rest mode.

He wakes up and removes it. 

His energy should be spent elsewhere. There's plenty to do before they leave for Sevastopol. This is just a fluke that will go away on its own, like the time he got the hiccups from an air bubble in his fluid chamber.

After a week, he reassesses. He runs the numbers, calculates the statistical probability of this fixation causing him to endanger the mission or the well-being of the crew. The odds are reassuringly low.

He leaves with the crew and tries to put it out of his mind.

***

Of course, when they reach the space station, everything is chaos. He's glad he came, categorizes the sensation of knowing Amanda Ripley didn't get into this situation alone as relief. The incessant reminder that she wouldn't be here if it weren't for him, he classifies as guilt.

There's much to be done on Sevastopol. There's Taylor's injuries to tend to, Marshal Waits to track down, and a homicidal creature to contend with.

But still, always at the edges of his thoughts, he's running the numbers for the likelihood of Amanda Ripley's safety.

In the calmer moments, at the Marshal Station, he allows himself to indulge in the calculations. He runs through hypothetical scenarios. He weighs the resourcefulness of Amanda Ripley against the obstacles facing her, and keeps finding her more and more likely to survive. 

In these moments, he has to come back to himself slowly. Has to focus internally on what's happening in his head. He shuts down the functions that have started running without his full knowledge, redirects the energy spent on Ripley's chances and returns to the task at hand.

"Samuels," Taylor nearly shouts on one such occasion, startling him.

"Yes?" he answers, feeling exposed somehow, as if she can see past layers of synthetic skin and metal and into his head. 

"You were miles away," she says, propping herself up on her elbows against the gurney she is lying on. Her eyes are still glassy, and she's in pain, he notes. She's probably looking to him as a distraction, in lieu of proper painkillers.

"Where did you go?" she continues. "You stared off into space for a while."

Samuels takes four seconds to answer. He smiles, trying not to frighten her with the reality of their situation. "I was formulating potential plans of action. I apologize for my lapse in presence."

Taylor snorts and lies back on the cot. "Don't mention it. We're all worried."

He furrows his brow and opens his mouth to supply the automatic response that he is not human and therefore unable to experience worry. But then he snaps his mouth shut, comparing what he knows of the human emotion with his current preoccupation.

Zoning out to check and recheck the statistics of Ripley's continued health and survival, his susceptibility to distraction, his only moments of clear-headedness coming just after transmissions from Amanda.

He finds that he is, in fact, worried. 

This is worse than he thought. 

This Amanda Ripley-shaped glitch in his code is likely to get them all killed. 

He can't continue like this. He needs to have his hardware looked at, as soon as possible, before his negligence puts anyone in danger. He quickly assesses the abilities of the humans on-station to see who would be most suited to the task. 

_Shit_ , he thinks. And then, _I'm even borrowing her swear words. ___

__

***

Ripley returns not long after, with an omni-tool and a grudge against the Marshal.

She goes over the latest plan with Waits and emerges frustrated, her eyes fiery and the muscles in her shoulders tense.

"Maybe you should take a few moments to rest," Samuels suggests, gesturing at an open cot.

Ripley snorts, and he finds himself back inside his head, comparing the sound of Ripley's snort to the sound of Taylor's. They are so slightly different, and yet, one causes him to freeze up, to catalogue it, to package and store it in a corner of his memory forever.

"Like we have the time," she says, drawing him back to the present. She contradicts her own sense of urgency by leaning against the cot and heaving a sigh, as if she has nowhere to be, no monsters to fight. 

She is a world of contradictions, Samuels thinks, and they all make more sense to him than any piece of data he's ever processed. 

"Ripley," he begins, and clears his throat, finding his mouth dry. He chooses to blame it on the dust in the station. "If you do rest here a moment, I hoped you could take a quick look at my hardware. There's a very basic panel that should be easily accessible." 

She tilts her head slightly, and he ducks his under her gaze. "It should only take a moment, and I wouldn't ask if I didn't think the issue could indirectly endanger the crew."

"Of course, Samuels," she answers, and her voice is so soft, he notices, so kind. So different from the harsh tone she took with Waits a few minutes earlier. "Are you feeling alright?" 

He looks up at her, and automatically compares her facial expressions with those in his database. She looks concerned. He is clearing his throat again, and finds himself unable to blame the dust.

"Overall, I'm functioning as well as can be expected." He strides over to the cot to stand beside her, leaning against it as well, facing forward to keep himself from getting distracted. "I've sustained only superficial injuries and my fluid levels are adequate. It's a problem of focus, I'm afraid."

"I keep finding myself distracted," he explains. "Devoting too much processing time to running calculations, and analyzing things that are of little consequence at the moment."

He looks over at Amanda, and she's frowning, a small crease in her brow. 

"It's understandable," she begins, but pats the cot to indicate he should sit down all the same. He complies. "We're in a survival situation, after all. We're all pretty stressed. I can't imagine what it's doing to your systems, always thinking, always coming up with plans."

"I'm sure they're holding up just fine. I'd just like a quick confirmation, if possible." He pauses, and adds, "I don't want to be unfocused when I could be helping."

Amanda nods at him, accepting, and he files away the expression as he does with all the others. "The panel is accessible from the base of my neck. There should be a small flesh-colored screw to detach it. If it's not any trouble."

"Sure thing, Samuels." Amanda circles to the other side of the cot and climbs onto it behind him, her legs folded underneath her. 

Samuels can feel her warmth at his back and stares at his legs hanging over the edge of the cot as he removes his jacket. He flexes his shoulders and straightens up.

Amanda reaches for the collar of his shirt and pulls it down a bit, making room for the screwdriver setting of her omni-tool to slip in and loosen the panel. 

"I haven't done a lot of work with synthetics," she says, and he can feel the twist of the screw but focuses on the brush of her knuckles on his neck, holding his collar out of the way. "So you'll have to let me know what I'm looking for."

"I'm certain you'll notice if anything's wrong," he says. "I've been feeling slightly...off, for some time now, but I didn't think it was serious."

"Off how?" Amanda asks, pausing her ministrations for a moment.

Samuels sighs, and reminds himself that he's a synthetic, and shouldn't be capable of feeling embarrassment. 

"I've just been disproportionately focused on one thing," he says, and immediately seeks to correct it, thinking he sounds callous. "One person."

Amanda lifts the panel off the area where his titanium spine begins and places it carefully beside them on the cot. "One thing and/or person, huh?" she asks, leaning forward to inspect the fuses and ports that make up his quick-access wiring center. 

He can feel her so close behind him, can smell the light scent of her shampoo underneath the stronger smell of smoke and fire. He curses whatever idiot at the Company found a way to give synthetics the ability to smell, and curses Waits for putting the scent of fire and ash on Amanda Ripley.

"I can't see anything wrong, Samuels. Everything here is pristine." She leans a hand on his shoulder as she shifts on the cot, adjusting to put the panel back in place. 

He thinks of how they've never been in such close proximity before, and the hand on his shoulder is so warm, even through his shirt. She puts the screw in place and grips his shoulder, her breath on his neck as she leans in to focus.

His temperature monitor sends an alert to his brain. He's practically overheating. He takes a few deep breaths, allowing the air to circulate to his internal cooling fans. He focuses on switching on some fans and shutting down the processes going haywire, the little pockets of his mind greedy to categorize any interactions with Amanda. 

"I'm sorry to have wasted your time," he mutters. "I just fear that I'll be too caught up in thoughts about...this person, and their well-being, to perform at maximum capacity for everyone involved."

Amanda stiffens behind him, before recovering to smooth the panel into place. "Well Samuels, it sounds like you don't have an issue worth worrying about. It sounds like you have a crush."

He can hear the amusement in her voice, covering the strain underneath. He opens his mouth, but his mind supplies him with no immediate answer. 

"And don't worry," Amanda says quietly, running the soft fingertips of one hand over the panel to make sure it's secure. "I think Taylor will pull through." 

There's something different in her voice now, all traces of amusement gone. It sounds, he thinks as he compares it to his small sample of data, like loss. Like the sadness in her voice when she speaks of her mother, or the disappointment that creeps in when she's faced with an impossible situation. 

Before he can say anything, she runs her thumb over the panel already slotted back into his neck, lingering for a moment, and then she's up and off the cot. 

She's gathering up her bag of tools and tricks to head back into that arena, where nothing is certain and no one is safe, and Samuels can't let her leave without knowing the truth. 

"Ripley," he says, with too much force behind it, but his mind is still processing the feel of her thumb against his neck and it makes it hard to control the impulses of his vocals. 

She barely looks over her shoulder, marching for the door, already returning to survival mode. "I have to go, Samuels," she calls over her shoulder without stopping, and he's certain now that it's disappointment beneath the hardness of her battle-ready voice.

"Ripley, wait!" He runs over to her and reaches out. She turns and looks at his hand on her arm, avoiding his eyes. He blinks to clear the fog of sensory input from touching her, and says, "This person I'm concerned about, that I can't stop thinking about."

She starts to pull away, but he strokes his thumb down her arm, so gently, a mirror of her motion a moment before. "It isn't Taylor."

She looks up at him, surprise clear on her face, and, if he isn't mistaken, a glint of hope in her eyes. 

There's a crashing sound and they both startle. He releases her arm and they tense to face whatever threat is coming.

It's only Waits clunking about in his office. 

"Haven't you left yet?" he grunts from behind the door. 

Amanda turns back to Samuels and he looks up from where he'd been studying her arm, longing to restore their connection. 

"Be safe, Samuels," she says, and her eyes are so bright he thinks he'll be blinded by them.

He clenches his jaw and hopes his eyes can speak half as eloquently as hers. "You too, Am -- Ripley."

She backs up, eyes never leaving his face, and abruptly turns on her heel. In a few steps she's out of the room, and back into danger. 

For all his calculations, all his projected outcomes, he can't say with any certainty what will happen to all of them. He doesn't know if they'll make it off Sevastopol, or if Taylor will fight her injuries long enough to get proper medical attention, or if an angry creature will fall from the vents and kill them all.

But the one thing he does know is that he'll do anything he can to make sure Amanda Ripley survives this ordeal and, with any luck, gets the closure she deserves.

***

It's hot inside the machine. There are lights flashing and sirens wailing and the unwelcome sensation of his hardware being fried.

But it's the most peaceful he's felt since they arrived at Sevastopol.

Ripley is outside of this chamber. She's made it this far, and now stands a chance of obtaining the flight recorder containing the answers she so deserves. Amanda Ripley is safe, to a degree.

Samuels can hear her rushing around the antechamber, unplugging wires in a frantic attempt to save what's left of him. He knows it's no use, knows this was the most likely outcome by far, but allows her the hope he won't allow himself. Lets her dart around the room feeling useful instead of lying helpless in the maw of an angry machine.

He can feel his programming scramble, code shuffled back and forth, wrenched from his head by APOLLO. As the edges of his consciousness begin to darken, he focuses all of his energy on the corner of his memory banks devoted to Amanda Ripley. He protects it with all he's got, a final stand as APOLLO rips his life away. He defends the only thing worth saving.

In the chaos, as he calls out to her, APOLLO directs its attack to his memories of her. When he realizes this is certainly his end, when he knows he'll never wake from this nightmare, he lets go of what little control he has over his illogical impulses and calls out. 

He feels it on his tongue, the name that's been flashing across his synapses for weeks, and allows himself this final indulgence. "Amanda!"

Samuels hears the whirr as APOLLO shuts down. Ripley is calling to him, and she sounds worried, says he's dying as he stumbles out of the wretched machine.

He feels as if he should laugh at that. He's nothing but a machine as well, unable to die having never been alive. The only semblance of humanity he's ever truly experienced is losing control of himself around her, and he's fairly certain that would be considered a fault rather than a spark of life.

"You talk like I've had an actual life," he grates out, his vocals already going wrong. "I... thank you for that."

He tries and fails to lift his head in her direction, to catch a last glimpse of the face that changed his world. He looks for her in his mind, whatever he has left on his drives, and the images flicker before him.

"You did this for me?"

Ripley, working on an engine when they first met, her eyes distrusting. Ripley stomping out of Waits' office, eyes ablaze like the fire she had narrowly escaped. The feel of her thumb stroking down his neck, lingering. Her arm in his hand, her eyes locked on his.

"I wanted Amanda Ripley to have closure."

He tries to call her name again, but his vocal synthesizers have shut down for good. He thinks it all the same. 

_Amanda._

And then the world goes dark.


End file.
